Mr. Claghorn's Daughter Part 35

Back of the room he saw another filled with people, decked with palms and artificial grottoes. He entered and sat down at the first unoccupied table.

"Bring me a sandwich," he said to the waiter, "and a drink."

The sandwich was brought and the drink. The latter Leonard supposed was wine. He remembered that he had scruples against wine-drinking; had, in fact, never tasted wine. He was too tired to care much for scruples, and besides, he was faint, and even his scruples permitted wine in case of illness. He swallowed the liquor, which was whiskey, at one gulp, and commenced to eat ravenously.

He ordered another sandwich and another drink, which was brought, this time with a carafe of water in addition. He drank greedily of the water, reserving his liquor, and, as ravenously as before, consumed his second sandwich.

Then he looked about him with more interest in his surroundings than he had known during all that day. He felt comfortable, happy in fact. He stretched out his legs and sipped his liquor, this time noting the strength of the beverage, which made him cough and brought the tears to his eyes, causing a woman to smile slyly. He smiled in return, then looked quickly away, abashed at his own temerity in thus answering the involuntary expression of a strange lady. This, as he looked about him, he thought must be one of those German beer-gardens he had heard about, but in this country had never seen. Evidently the people did not bring their children. That was well. Beer-drinking was a bad example for children. The women looked tired, he thought, though some were very rosy, remarkably so, and all were tawdry. The men were not a nice-looking set, though there were exceptions. Many were not much more than boys, and these affected brilliant, if somewhat dirty, neckwear.

There were things about this place that offended him; princ.i.p.ally, the tone of the men. They lolled a good deal and smoked in the women's faces; that was German, he supposed. The women, of whom a number were alone, were better behaved. He noticed a waiter order one to leave the place; that was singular, especially as she had slunk in very quietly and had seemed very humble. Suddenly the great orchestrion commenced to squeal and bang and clash, and soon the heads of the people were strangely bobbing, keeping time; now the strains grew soft and plaintive; a profound sadness crept over him as he listened to what seemed the requiem of a dying soul. He felt the tears rising in his eyes.

For a long time he had been eagerly watched by a woman. Berthe could not be sure if this were indeed the man she knew. What could he be doing here? Half hidden behind a curtain which draped a huge column, she watched the heaving breast of the man. Suddenly, she saw his head fall forward, smashing a tumbler, and a cry of agony broke from him.

"Natalie, Natalie!"

It might have been the last despairing wail of the soul doomed thenceforward to darkness, whose requiem he had heard. To the obscene observers and the superintendent of the place it was the cry of a drunken man, who had no business there.

There was no hubbub. The habitus of the place comprehended that nothing of that sort was allowed. The man was quickly hustled into the front room by the manager.

"Get his hat," said this personage to a waiter. "Has he paid his bill?"

he questioned as the man brought the hat.

"Yes, except the broken gla.s.s."

"d.a.m.n the gla.s.s!" replied the manager, who desired to get rid of the drunkard. "Come, young fellow, steady on your pins now and be off."

A woman slipped her arm under Leonard's. "I will take care of him," she said.

The manager looked at the pair as they made their way toward the street.

"Do you know her?" he asked of an employee who had witnessed the departure.

"She's not a regular, sure."

"Nor he. Well, it's not our affair," and the manager returned to his duties.

The two wandered off, the man's unsteady steps supported tenderly by the woman. When the sun rose, his head rested on her bosom and her lips hovered lovingly above his own, and the hum of the waking city, borne to his ears, may, to him, have been the distant harmony of a pan of victory hymned in h.e.l.l.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

A DELECTABLE DISCUSSION, IN WHICH A SHAKSPERIAN MATRON IS ROUTED.

Natalie Claghorn had always nourished a sentiment, which with many is a conviction, with most a hope, that man is something more than the futile hero of a sorry comedy--not made to live merely that he may die. Hence, religion had been a need of her being, and, though unconsciously, she had developed a creed of her own, vague, no doubt, from the positive standpoint, but one which excluded those essential elements of the faith of her husband, h.e.l.l and the Devil; grim inventions these which, while imbibing wisdom at the paternal knee, she had learned were mere memories of ancient Oriental mythologies. This view, in so far as she had given the matter any thought, she had supposed the view commonly held, and universally held among the cultured. Recently, indeed, there had been a moment in which even with her bodily eyes she had, as she had then believed, beheld the terrors and the torments of the d.a.m.ned; but as many men and women, who believe not in ghosts, have nevertheless seen these dwellers of the shades, and yet in less receptive phases of the mind have been able to dismiss their visitants to the shadows from which they were evoked, so Natalie had been able to discard belief in the reality of her vision. Nevertheless, though incredulous, he who has seen a ghost remains impressed, and the memory of her experience naturally recurred with her theological studies, serving to emphasize the horrible, rather than the absurd, aspect of her acquirements.

Her desire to know had been honest, and she imputed honesty to others; hence, when Leonard, with pen and voice, a.s.severated his belief in a creed which must render paternity impossible to any being with a conscience, she had been confounded by the att.i.tude he presented. She was not aware that between her husband and herself the sources of sympathy had always been shallow, and she was quite as ignorant of theological frenzy as she was of the knowledge of masculine pa.s.sion. She had loved him; and she had loved Mrs. Joe, Paula, the Marquise, her maid Berthe; in fact, she had loved, and still loved, humanity, as far as she knew it, and it was thus that she had loved her husband, though, doubtless, in his case, this gentle flame had burned with more intensity than in others.

Though grieved that Leonard had left her without saying good-bye, yet she felt that he had acted wisely, in that he had given her time to think without the disturbing sense of his presence in his repellant mood. And during this period an incident occurred which aided her in finding the only solution of the problems which vexed her.

It was not to be expected of the Hampton matrons that they continue their tolerant att.i.tude, with regard to Mrs. Leonard Claghorn. Her continued languid health after the birth of her child, the subsequent bereavement and absence, these had afforded an excuse for neglect; but now there was solicitude, and in a certain circle of dames, which met every fortnight to discuss Shakspere, but whereat other subjects, as possessing more of novelty, were occasionally considered, some rather severe strictures were made, in reference to Professor Claghorn's apparent inability to convert his wife--he who had so audaciously, if not successfully, coped with Brigston.

"Brilliancy is less effective than earnestness," opined Mrs. Waring, wife of Professor Waring, whose forte was Hebrew, and who was noted for great erudition, a large family and a feeble intellect.

"In the long run, no doubt," a.s.sented Mrs. Professor Flint. "But surely, she is not really unconverted!"

"She certainly hides her light. There are times--I hope I am not uncharitable--when I wonder, suppose she were a Jesuit!"

"Awful! She's French; her mother was n.o.ble--of the old n.o.bility--and the old n.o.bility are all Jesuits."

"And a Jesuit will stick at nothing in the way of deception. It's a terrible possibility!"

Natalie found apologists, notably Mrs. Tremaine, who maintained that there were no female Jesuits, and who defended the absent, partly because she was a spirited and generous woman, partly because, at this particular period, she experienced an unusually distinct impression of her own importance by reason of an acknowledged claim to the admiration of the other Shaksperians. Even Mrs. Waring, the mother of ten, was inclined to look with indulgence, if not with envy, upon this champion, though she whispered to Mrs. Flint that "after a half dozen, Mary Tremaine would change her note."

However that may be, Mrs. Tremaine's note remained on this occasion triumphant, and she glowed with victory, and also with good intentions; for she resolved to warn Natalie that the gossips were preparing for a feast, "and," said the lady to herself, "it must be stopped; never allow a tiger a taste of blood," which mental exclamation clearly indicates the exaltation of the lady's spirit.

In this spirit, as soon as the Shaksperian sance was over, she started for the Morley mansion, full of excellent intentions and the proud possessor of a secret already known to the wives of all the professors of the Seminary, except Natalie; and which, if confided to the latter, would indicate that friendly feeling by which she was really actuated, and thus pave the way to the warning she wished to give. She was also impelled by the pardonable desire to further impart the information already widely diffused; and which, in fact, could not remain much longer a secret, unless the complacent lady decided on complete seclusion for some months.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose it will be noticeable soon. Professor Tremaine is so proud; he actually struts. He hopes for a boy."

"Unfortunate woman!" exclaimed Natalie. "How can you smile?"

"Dear Mrs. Claghorn, I forgot your own recent loss. Believe me, time----"

"But, have I understood? You hope for a baby--you a Christian wife?"

"Why not I--a Christian wife, as you say?" was the answer of the visitor, who was both shocked and puzzled by the expression of her hostess.

"I do not understand," exclaimed Natalie hopelessly; then suddenly: "How can you dare? Have you no compa.s.sion, no fear? You can smile, believing that an awful calamity hangs over you!"

"Awful calamity!" echoed the bewildered visitor, perhaps a little alarmed by the speaker's energy.

"Is it not? Have I understood aright? Are you going to have a baby?"

"I have said so. Why the fact should affect you so strangely is a mystery to me."

"Do you believe this book?" and Natalie seized the well-known volume with its blue cover.

"Certainly, I believe the Confession."

"And your husband?"

"Does he not teach it?"

"And believing that this book is true, knowing that the furnaces of h.e.l.l are choked with sinners--knowing this, you and your husband welcome the birth of a human being! G.o.d help me, and you, Mrs. Tremaine, forgive me, but I cannot understand these things. Why! you believe that your baby may be d.a.m.ned!"

"How dare you say such things? My child will not be d.a.m.ned. Ah! You poor woman, I see. You have brooded over your own baby's death, and have been dwelling on horrors. I have heard of such cases. Dear Mrs. Claghorn, dismiss such dreadful folly from your mind. Babies are not d.a.m.ned; n.o.body has believed that for years."

"_I_ do not fear for my child, nor for yours. But you--you cannot be sure he will die. He may grow up--what then?"